The Healer's Daughter
by SilverElvenEyes
Summary: Elrond finds at last a healer with powers like to his, but when she falls in love with his best friend, tragity befalls them...chapter nine; Malsir and Thranduil get into a fight over a baby Legolas, and other philosophic talks.
1. Chapter One: The Prologue

DISCLAIMER: I only own Malsîr, and it's not pronounced mal-sir, but mal-sear. The translation is "golden river." Mal as in mallorn tree.

A/n: Again, I am stealing Glorfindel from Bermuda in the West. Sorry bud. (If you didn't know, Glorfindel didn't come back from Valinor after he died and was reincarnated until about 1000 TA.)

Prologue

There was a time long ago when I knew only despair and exhaustion. After the Battle of the Last Alliance, when Isildur refused my advice, and took the One Ring, I felt betrayed. So many men and elves dead, and so many horribly crippled and maimed—and all for nothing. Isildur could not see it because he was not a healer. But I walked down the isles in the healer's tents and saw the pain and fear there, and I cursed Isildur as a fool. I was angry and tired, and in mourning for my Lord Gil-Galad and Elendil. Trying to help the injured drained me further. I felt numb.

It was dawn. I was tired but could not rest, and the sobbing and screaming coming from the healer's tents would have prevented me from sleeping anyway. I closed my eyes and willed myself to go and aid them. Even if I did not have the strength to heal, I could help with the ointments and such. 

"Lord Elrond?"

I looked up at a young elf-girl, small and slender, and very young. Not full-grown as yet, maybe forty years old. Her eyes were sad but her jaw was set in a determined stance.

"Child," I said, "what are you doing on a battle-field?"

"I've come to help."

"There is nothing you can help with. Go home."

"I have none."

I paused. "Where are you parents?"

She shifted, and bit her lip. "Dead," she said at last, and her voice shook slightly. "I want to help you and the other healers, but they threw me out."

"An extra pair of hands is always useful," I told her. "I will speak with the healers. Come with me."

She tagged along behind me, and many wondered at the sight of an elven-child. Few humans had seen one for many, many years. She was the elven equivalent of a teenager, no taller than a fourteen or fifteen year old mortal, but much wiser than a human teenager. 

I spoke with the lead human healer, a weary man in his forties, and he finally agreed. By the time I turned back, though, the girl had disappeared. Frowning, I turned as I heard the soft and melodic voice of an elf.

"Am I dead?" a man asked as the girl bent over him. "Is this the afterlife?"

"Not by any stretch of the imagination," she answered with a gentle smile as she washed her hands. "Where do you hurt?"

"My arm was burned," the solider answered. She gently unwound the bandage. I watched her critically, and for some reason I decided not to intervene. She reapplied the ointment and re-wrapped the wound in a fresh bandage. To my surprise, though, she put both her hands on the bandage, and narrowed her eyes slightly. The man sighed with relief and leaned back against his pillow, closing his eyes. 

I came up swiftly behind her and pulled her aside. "Where did you learn to do that?" I asked sharply.

"I'm a healer, Lord Elrond," she answered quietly. "I help those I can and try to ease the pain for those I can't." 

I bit my lip. "You take the left side, I'll take the right," I said finally. "If you get tired or dizzy, stop and rest or you could hurt yourself." She nodded and we split up. I had put her on the left side of the tent because that was where the less-serious injuries were. I didn't know how much experience she'd had with blood. It would do no good if she fainted. 

But she did not faint—indeed, she was fresh and worked faster than I. She'd finished her row about three patients before me, and so came over to see if I need any help. She didn't seem to be weary. 

I was struggling to save the life and arm of a man who'd taken a spear through the shoulders and was bleeding heavily. If we couldn't stop the hemorrhage, we'd have to cut the arm off. 

She came up as I said, "We'll have to amputate the arm."

"Wait!" She stepped up quickly to the groaning man's side. "I think I can stop it!"

I turned to tell her that I'd already tried anything but she was already in a light trance, her fingers hovering just over the wound and moving back and forth, finally stopping. "There," she murmured, and collapsed. I caught her and eased her to the floor. When I turned back to the patient, my expression twisted into one of shock and wonderment. The wound was not only half-closed already, but the blood had stopped. Even as I watched, I could see muscle and nerves repairing themselves as the wound continued to close. Within a few moments, nothing was left but a faint scar. 

I bent down to see if the girl was still alive. Such healing took an extremely large amount of power. She was blinking sleepily, but she was alive.

"What's your name, child?" I asked her.

"Malsîr, sir."

"My dear," I said, "you may just have given me a measure of hope." 

Malsîr just smiled. 


	2. Chapter Two: The Truth of a Broken Heart

DISCLAIMER: See prologue. 

Chapter One

The Truth of a Broken Heart

Malsîr was a wonderful healer. She had good bedside manner, a cheerful and positive outlook, and she was honest with her patients. It had been a long time since I'd seen an elf with the same healing powers and abilities as I. I began to train her, "field-training" more accurately. I taught her what she needed to know to help her patients, nothing more and nothing less. Formal training could wait.

I do not believe I have ever seen such an expression of loss on a face than when the last of our patients left our care, and I began to pack to leave. 

"Where are you going?" I asked when I saw her walking out of camp later than day. She turned to me and from her expression she was trying hard not to cry. She was a thin little thing, and had been nearly emaciated when I would found her. Healing had taken a lot out of her and she was still thin and lean. Now, though, she seemed haunted in a way I had never seen before.

"What's wrong?" I asked instead of waiting for an answer. When she did not reply, only stared at her feet, I took her arm and led her aside. "What is it?" I repeated.

"I'm leaving," she said to the ground. "I am no more use here."

I slipped a finger under her chin and lifted her head to look me in the eye. "You have to be trained as a healer," I pointed out.

"No healer wants a half-bred orphan," she answered with bitterness. I blinked in surprise. I honestly had not known she was half-elf. 

"I want a student," I said firmly. "You're here and you have talent. I don't care about your breeding."

"Why not?"

"I'm half-elf, too," I said quietly, and she fell silent. 

"If I'm a bother…"

"You're not. I have searched for years for an elf with natural healing. It is not as common in elves as people tend to believe. I want you as my student. Will you except?"

She looked at me from under dark lashes, and I mentally shook my head. No one would guess she was half-elf. "Will you take me with you?" she returned. "I'm not so easy to get along with."

I smiled. "I like a challenge."

For the first time she gave me a little grin, looking her age for once. I smiled at her and stood up. "Come, let's leave this place. Too many memories live here."

"My mother died here," she said suddenly, staring at the tent.

"I'm not surprised. It was a horrible battle."

"No…" she said softly. "My mother survived the battle, but the healer she was taken to would not treat her."

I stopped and swung around, my brows coming together in a sharp frown. "What?" I said. 

"The healers here were male. None would touch her to treat her. They thought it indecent." She swallowed heavily and pointed with a shaking hand to a bed some way down the isle. "I watched her die in the bed. Her injuries were treatable, but she died anyway." She turned her face from me, but not before I saw the tears falling off her lashes. 

I vowed to find the man responsible for her mother's death and give him a blistering lecture. Had I been younger I might well have struck the man when I found him. 

"I'm so sorry," I said with deep sympathy. I knew what it was like to loose parents early. "Do you want a moment alone?"

"I'd rather not," she said quietly. "I made peace with my mother before she died. Maybe I'll see her again someday." She wiped away a tear and turned to leave.

"What of your father?" I dared to ask.

Malsîr stopped but did not turn. "He was in the first row of attackers. An archer behind him slipped and shot him through the back. No one helped him…" Her voice trailed off to bitter sobs. She leaned against one of the support poles and cried into her arm. 

I put both my hands on her shoulders in comfort, though really there was nothing I could say. For indeed, what words are there to say to someone who has lost a loved one? Her shoulder's shook under my touch and her voice was muffled.

"It's not fair…"

"Death almost never is."

She broke free of my touch and moved quickly outside, not quite at a run. I let her go. 

I am a healer. I can heal many wounds and fevers, stitch cuts and mend broken bones. But what, if any, can even the greatest of healers do for a broken heart?


	3. Chapter Three: A Pair of Arrivals

DISCLAIMER: See chapter one.

A/n: Thanks to Hannah Ashcrowe and The Mouth of Sauron (aka TMOS) for being my first reviewers! Hannah: Thanks for pointing that one out! I'm awful at grammar. :D If there's one thing my English teacher hates me for, it's for that one mistake. Next time I feel perky and picky I'll reload the chapter and fix that. TMOS: I got the idea for that after hearing a story about a woman in the Middle-East, and how her in-laws and her husband threw her on a burning fire. She was horribly burned, but they did nothing at the hospital except give her an IV. Two days later she died. It was on a woman's right's show. Thanks for the reviews! 

Chapter Two

A Pair of Arrivals

I have to admit, I was frantic. More than frantic. Petrified. I'm supposed to be the calm and wise Elf-Lord, but when my wife is giving birth to twins and my student is the only healer at Rivendell and I'm twenty miles out when she goes into labor with a group of orcs on my heels, life can get a little stressful. 

I urged my horse faster and glanced over my shoulder at the orcs who were doggedly, nosily, and happily following along like an annoying puppy. A voice in my head told me to squash them when I crossed the ford. Celebrían, already irritable from being in labor, was even more irritable at my student's constant insistence that she "relax."

_"RELAX!" she blasted in my head. __"This student of yours wants me to relax? I feel like I'm carrying fifty pounds of bricks rather than a pair of twins! OW!"_

_"I'm almost there, honey. Just relax."_

_"Don't you start! OWOWOW!"_

_I was at the Ford. "Squash them!" my wife insisted.__ "Squash 'em and wash 'em!"_

_"Why, darling, I haven't heard you sound so blood-thirsty since the day you asked me to marry you."_

_Celebrían managed a laugh at that, but it was quickly stifled by another gasp of pain. "Hold on, darling. I'm across the ford…"_

_"Did you squash 'em?"_

_I stopped and looked back at the elven-sentries making short work of the orcs. "No. But we did impale them."_

_"Close enough."_

If you believe that elf-maidens are all milk and butter, think again. Celebrían was wilder in her youth than many mortal teenagers. She had an amazing imagination, a quick wit and intelligence to set me back on my heels. And she'd try and do anything. 

"In short," Malsîr had once said, "she's perfect for you. You need to loosen up, get out there, move to the music."

I looked down my nose at her. "You've been spending too much time with the humans," I said at last, elegantly, and she only grinned. 

Before night had fallen I had two adorable and beautiful elf-boys in my arms, both wide awake and gurgling happily. I'd kicked Malsîr out the instant I arrived and she'd waited patiently outside the door. Unfortunately, she'd also been leaning against it in a light doze so when I opened the door she fell backwards into my arms, much to her embarrassment and Celebrían's amusement. 

Malsîr stood at my shoulder, listening quietly as Celebrían and I named the twins. "Would you like to hold Elrohir?" I asked, gently handing her one of the babies as Celebrían cuddled the other. She took the child deftly. He watched her with curiosity bright in his gray eyes. She smiled and gave him a finger to hold. He cooed happily and squeezed my finger, wiggling his little fist. "He's so sweet," she said as she gently handed the baby back to me. Elrohir wouldn't let go of her finger—indeed, he had it in a death grip—and it took a bit of coaxing to free her. 

"Well," she said to me, "I'll leave you two alone now."

It broke my heart, and it broke Celebrían's heart to watch her walk out of the room silently, knowing full well that she had very few friends in Rivendell. For some reason I could not understand, none of the elves wished to befriend her, and I could hardly order them to do so. "Malsîr," I called, "you're part of our family, too. Come back." 

She stopped and smiled gently at me. "I don't have a family anymore, remember?" The door closed softly behind her.

It was rare indeed when she spoke of her family, now a hundred years dead and gone, but I knew that the pain was still sharp within her. I wished that she could stop hiding behind her gentle smiles and her healing powers, and let people get closer to her. 

"She's afraid of loosing another family," Celebrían said into the silence. Elladan giggled and swatted Celebrían across the nose, breaking the mood. "Hey, you little trickster!" She tickled him gently and he squealed happily. Elrohir gurgled playfully in my arms and grabbed a piece of my long hair, yanking. 

"Gently!" I said, trying to pull my hair free from his iron-like grip. "I think we have a black-smith here," I teased, putting my nose gently against the baby's. Elrohir giggled and tugged on my hair again, this time gentler. 

"Do you get the feeling they're going to be little tricksters?" Celebrían asked as Elladan happily sucked on a piece of her hair. 

As Elrohir began to pull on the tip of my left ear, I said, "Naw." Then we both laughed.

*?*?*?*?*?*?*

More reviews mean more chapters, guys…so move that mouse down there and review! Thank you!


	4. Chapter Four: The Prank and Conversation...

Chapter Three

The Prank and Conversations

Celebrían and I were rudely jerked from our reverie one evening as a shrill scream cut through Rivendell's peaceful quiet. I think half of Imladris stampeded to see what was wrong. I fell out of bed and threw on a bathrobe over my sleeping clothes. Racing out into the hall, I followed the sound to Malsîr's bedroom. Throwing open the door with a dagger in my hand, and Glorfindel with only a pair of breeches on, behind me brandishing his sword, we leapt into her bedroom. 

We found that Malsîr had jumped up and was holding onto the rafters for dear life as a rather large tarantula made its way calmly across her pillow.

"SPIDER!" she yelped. "I HATE spiders! Kill it! Ahh, it's coming after me!"

"It's doing no such thing," Glorfindel retorted, sincerely amused as he shooed the spider off her bed and outside. Following it through Malsîr's open window, I heard him put it to a quick and painless death before climbing back in. "You may come down now," he informed her.

"Check for another one."

"Malsîr…"

"Check, if you value your life!"

Glorfindel sighed and shook his head, and then with my help we pulled the blankets apart until Malsîr was satisfied that there were no more surprises in order. 

She jumped down onto her bed and immediately jumped off, looking all around warily. She jumped a foot when Glorfindel touched her shoulder. "That spider was more afraid of you than you were of it," he informed her.

"Hah" was all she said. 

I looked back at the crowd that had gathered around her door. "Go back to sleep," I said. "It's nothing."

Slowly the crowd dissipated, and Glorfindel and I turned to leave. "You're leaving me?" she asked shakily.

"Aren't you tired?"

"After that burst of adrenaline?" She gave Glorfindel and me a look.

"Goodnight," Glorfindel said simply, and closed the door behind him as he left. I turned to follow him out. 

It was then that I was aware of giggling. I stopped and turned around. Malsîr had a puzzled look on her face; she had obviously heard it too.

She pulled open her closet door and out fell the twins, Elladan and Elrohir, whom I had thought fast asleep in bed. "She fell for it!" was all I could make out of their giggling.

Their giggles swiftly turned to yelps as Malsîr hauled them up by the ear-tips. "All right, who's idea was it?" she demanded.

"His," they said simultaneously, pointing to each other. They glanced at one another and burst into giggles again.

"Shame on you!" I scolded, and the boys immediately fell silent. "What kind of creatures do you think you are—orcs-pups or elves?"

The two hung their heads, and I was always an easy target for that. I sighed. "Go to your rooms," I ordered. "I'll design punishment later."

The boys marched out, gloomy, their fun spoiled. I looked back over to Malsîr, her arms wrapped tightly around her and shivering violently. "Will you be all right?" I asked.

She nodded through chattering teeth, unable to speak. "I h-h-h-hate sp-sp-spiders," she gasped, and walked around the room, shivering and rubbing her arms. 

"Bad experience with them?" I asked, watching her carefully. In the almost one hundred fifty years I had known her, Malsîr had not once, not even once, volunteered information about her background, and I had not dared press her. She was a haunted child, and it would only hurt her to pry into her life. 

"Yes." She turned away and went to her balcony. I sighed softly and turned to leave. "My Lord?"

I paused and looked back. Malsîr was very pale, and her eyes very wide. "It was a long time ago…back when I lived in Mirkwood."

Curious now, since she had never mentioned where she came from or what race of elf she was. "Are you Silvan or Sindarin, then?" I asked. 

"Noldorin and Teleri," she answered softly. "My—my father was half and half. My mother was human. We lived in the Elven-King's palace for a while, and then moved to Lothlórien…I still have relatives there, in Lórien."

I sat lightly on the edge of her bed. I had a feeling she needed to talk. "Do you speak with them often?"

"I haven't seen them in nearly two centuries." She glanced away. That was not so long a time for an older elf, but for a young one with no family…

Malsîr fell silent and I knew I would get no more out of her that evening. "Goodnight," I said quietly, and turned to leave.

"My lord?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you ever killed someone in battle?"

Startled by the change of subject I was silent for a moment. "Yes," I said at last. "Yes, I have. Why?"

"Is it true what they say, that we loose much of our healing powers if we kill another being, even in defense of our lives?"

I thought back to the days when I had tried to help the healers during the Battle of the Last Alliance. I thought back to how weak and helpless I had been, how little power I had had left. "Yes," I said. "It's true."

"Goodnight, my lord."

"Goodnight, Malsîr." 

*     *     *     *

Malsîr was already up and gathering herbs when I stepped outside the walls of Imladris. I found her on a sunny hillside, warming up in the field of wildflowers. On her arm was a basket full of herbs I had ordered her to collect. She looked up at me through dark lashes as I approached. "Ready for your lesson?" I asked.

"Yes, Lord Elrond." I sat down by her and took out a leaf. "What is this, what are its properties, what can it be mixed with safely, and what can it be mixed with to produce toxic effects?" I asked.

As Malsîr began to rattle off the answers, I listened with only half an ear. I knew that she was well-versed in medical lore, in history, in weaponry and in reading, speaking and writing of both Quenya and Sindarin, but I also knew that I had forgotten something—but what?

Ahh, yes, philosophy. I sighed inwardly. I had always known that I would eventually have to talk to her about grim matters, but I only wish it had not been now…

However, she was progressing quickly. If I waited, it could be too late. 

I smiled at her when she finished. "Well done!" I praised sincerely. "You have come a long way from the young elf-girl who hardly knew how to close a wound."

Malsîr flushed with pride and looked down at her lap, mumbling thanks. "But now, I am afraid, I must speak of darker matters."

She looked up at me sharply. "How so, milord?"

"My dear girl, I have spoken to you of many things—injuries, treatments, ointments, herbs, healing powers and illnesses. But I have yet to speak with you on the matter of the philosophy of healing."

She leaned back, the wildflowers brushing against her face as she cupped her head in her hand. "My lord?"

"There will come a time in your long life," I said steadily, "when a man or woman will ask you to let them die."

I saw her stiffen and her eyes dilate slightly in shock. Other than that, she was unmoved, and met my gaze steadily. "My lord?" she repeated uncertainly.

"And that is the day you will have to decide your own philosophy," I continued. "And you must decide—are you able to save that person? Would they die anyway? And even if they could recover, would you respect their wishes and let them die—or would you treat them against their will?" I watched her closely—I could almost see her mind sifting through the information I was feeding her, considering the possibilities and problems. "Where would your loyalties lie?" I asked. "Do you respect a patient's judgment enough to let them choose their own fate—or do you trust your own instincts and heal them anyway? And what of the day a dying man asks you to stop his pain through the only way he knows how?"

Malsîr dropped her gaze and did not answer. "I do not know what I would do," she admitted quietly. 

"Then think on it," I advised. "For one day you will have no time to do so."

"What would you do?" she asked me, her long black hair twirling around her face in the light breeze.

"What would I do?" I echoed. "It depends on the situation."

"Have you ever helped someone…die?"

"Once, a long time ago, yes I did."

"Was it…"

"It was one of the hardest things I ever had to do," I said softly. "But there was no chance I could have saved him…or at least that's what I've told my conscious all these years. So yes, when he begged me to end his pain, told me he had no one here he had to care for or who cared for him, I…"

"What?"

"I let him fade into unconscious, and then I stopped his heart."

To my complete and utter shock, Malsîr leaned her head briefly against my shoulder; her arm slipped around my back. "I'm afraid now," she whispered. 

I looked down at her. "I know," I said simply. 


	5. Chapter Five: A Moonlight Talk

Disclaimer: I thought we've been through this….only Malsîr and the wounded solder in the first chapter is mine. All else is Tolkien's. 

_160 mortal year of the Third Age, the sixth month and fourth day._

_I am in a dark place, and I can not get out. I have lost all joy in my healing—and because of it my powers weaken. For I find I weary of this world, but as yet know of no escape. Had I the courage, I think I might leave Middle-Earth for Eressëa; but I have not the strength of mind, and I suffer silently and painfully, wishing that some end to my misery would come. What more, I know naught where my pain comes from—making it almost impossible to cure. And candidly, I am embarrassed—that the healer should need healing has never crossed my mind. And so I wait, in a dark place, wishing to be found, whilst at the same time, hoping I would not. _

_-excerpt from Malsîr's diary_

A/n: A change of perspective on our odd little elfy-girl…

Chapter Four

A Moonlight Talk

I confess, Malsîr was a mystery to me. Even though Lord Elrond assured me that her grief over her parents was no longer so raw that she could not bear to see him and Lady Celebrían with their children, something was obviously bothering her. As an elven-lord of Rivendell, I have a duty to its people—to make sure they are as content as can possibly be. This is a haven for the Eldar folk, and so it should remain. 

I walked slowly down the hall, making no noise as I moved. Thin moonbeams crossed my path at an elegant slant, marking the way for any without elven eyes. The historic murals, depicting events in the past, seemed to watch me as I passed them, following me with their aged eyes. My long, gray, ceremonial robes and draping sleeves hung loosely about me over a blue tunic and silver breeches, the clothes moving as silent as I, without even a rustle to betray my presence. 

Malsîr stood at the edge of a waterfall, dressed scantily in a thin, sleeveless sleeping gown, her arms bare to the chill night air. Her eyes were closed and her head was tilted back, her long, uncut hair tumbling to past her waist. Elrond had tried to insist she cut it, but when she had continued to come to class with her long hair tightly bound up in elaborate, but effective, styles and hairnets, keeping her tresses safely locked away, he'd give up the fight. 

While a mortal might not notice my passing, I was walking loudly enough for an elf to hear. Malsîr seemed to be deep in trance; she did not respond to my presence until I was nearly upon her. At last she turned. 

"What is it you want, Lord Glorfindel?" she asked in a voice too weary for one so young. My face grew grave, but then I smiled.

"Is it not enough to ask for your company during this beautiful night?" I responded. She smiled palely and took my offered arm. Together we walked through the blooming gardens, listening to the quiet fall of fountains, and the distant roar of many waterfalls converging into the icy river Rivendell was named after. 

"You wish to speak with me, do you not?" Her voice was resigned; weary, as one of a thousand times her age. 

"Yes," I answered quietly, leading her slowly down a path bordered by white lilies. "Yes, Malsîr." I stopped her with a touch to the arm and turned her to face me. "What is it that haunts you so, child?" I asked softly, lifting her face gently with two fingers. Her dark eyes, so unusual in an elf, seemed to be pools of darkness in the shadows. Her face was indeed haunted, and lonely. I studied her eyes when she did not respond; she was in pain, and angry…hurt. Betrayed. 

At last I released her from my glance and her eyes fell to the grass by her feet. "Come," I said at last, drawing her towards the one of the benches that lay out along the path. "Sit by me." 

She sat, and briefly closed her eyes. The moonlight played upon her delicate, elven features. She neither moved, nor seemed to breathe for many long moments. She was still as a statue, frozen in time against a backdrop of moonlight. 

"What haunts you, child?" I asked again. "What is it that you fear?" 

She opened her eyes and held my gaze steadily. "What makes you say it is fear that haunts me?"

"What else lingers in your eyes?" I returned. Her glance fell away from mine. 

"I do not know."

"Is it your parents?"

"No…and yes…and yet…" She turned to me, and for a moment seemed almost desperate, her eyes dilated, fear flickering freely across her face. "My Lord…"

"Lord Glorfindel?"

Malsîr jerked back and away from me, standing quickly as a second elf came into view. The elf hesitated, knowing instantly that he had barged upon something he should not have. "You're wanted at the Hall of Fire, my Lord." 

I scowled, making no pretense about my displeasure. A few more minutes and I may have finally discovered what was eating away at Malsîr's soul. "Can it wait?"

"I'm afraid not, my Lord."

"Very well, tell them I will be along shortly." The elf bowed and turned to leave. I turned back to Malsîr. Perhaps there was time after all…

"Malsîr?"

She had disappeared into the night. I sighed. Out of view of all and any, I sat slowly down on the bench and let my head fall against my hands. 

*?*?*?*?*?*

So…which style do you prefer? The more elven-Tolkien style shown here or the more modern, contemporary style shown in the previous chapters? Personally, I like this style better, the elvish style, but it's MUCH harder to write. It's very hard to keep in mind that these are angelic creatures with extraordinary, super-human powers of both mind and body when I can have so much fun teasing them…

Now, you have to tell me if you liked it. I have another chapter done and I'm not afraid to use it! Now go review and tell me your thoughts, your flames (though my dog, Danger Ranger will eat them for breakfast) and anything else you'd like to share with the world. 


	6. Chapter Six: Melda-am

Disclaimer: See all other four billion chapters. You KNOW I don't own this…except for Malsîr and the wounded solder in chapter one. 

A/N: Very good, Lady Harlequin! My gosh, and I call myself a writer *rolls eyes* and I can't even trick my readers! Oh well…but I may not hook them up. It depends. We'll see what happens. I know, I know, it's all been talk lately. But this chapter starts the action. And no, Malsîr has not hit bottom yet. You'll _know when she does—trust me. _

_160 mortal year of the Third Age, of the ninth month and twenty-second day_

_All is dark. I find no joy in anything anymore. My world has faded into black. I do not know if I will live for much longer. Despair has eaten me away. I would ask for help, but from whom? I know of none who could help me. Not even the greatest healers in all of Middle-Earth can even sense there is something wrong with me, so why should they be able to fix it? I feel so cold all the time, like a soul living in a corpse. I am sorry for that. Life is always preferable, but it has become unbearable to live. If only I knew what was the matter perhaps I could heal myself. But it is too late. I am so cold…so cold…_

_-excerpt from Malsîr's diary. _

Chapter Five

Melda Am*

"Frankly, Lord Elrond, she is dying," Glorfindel told me bluntly. My glass of wine froze half-way to my lips, and I slowly set it back down. Glorfindel's dark gray eyes were very grave. "I can feel it, and I think you can, as well. She has lost all joy in this world, and for whatever reason she will not speak of why."

I touched two fingers to my temple and sighed. "She's always been expressive."

"She's dying," Lord Glorfindel said flatly, making no room for excuses. "She's dying, my lord. I watch her fade, wilt, a little more each day. And if we do not do something soon, she will be gone forever."

"What is it that causes her so much pain?"

"I do not know. I do not believe that even Malsîr knows. I came so close that evening I was summoned…"

"Could you perhaps try to reach her again?"

"I have tried. She will not listen. She always brushes my concern off with an 'It's nothing, my lord' and an undercurrent of 'It's not your business anyway'. My lord, I am completely out of ideas."

"There is something else…"

"My lord?"

"Her powers, her healing powers, they are fading. Draining away, as though something was sucking it from her, and she will not let me close enough to examine her." 

"You could order her," Glorfindel suggested quietly, sipping his wine and not really tasting it. 

"I could," I agreed sadly, "and that would break and probably kill her, in the state that she's in. No, she must be willing."

"Elrond! _Elrond! Come quick!"_

I jumped as Celebrían's voice rang out, sharp and clear. Putting down my glass I hurried to the door even as it was flung open. Celebrían held an unconscious Malsîr in her arms. "She just collapsed," my wife explained as she handed the girl to me. 

"Clear the table!" I ordered. Glorfindel and Celebrían swept the eating and drinking utensils off of the table and onto the floor. The glass would not break, and the food and wine could be cleaned up later. I gently say Malsîr on the table. She was completely white, paler than any elf should ever be. Her eyes were open and staring, her lips slightly parted. She panted slightly, as though she couldn't get enough air. I touched my fingers to her neck—hardly a pulse—and then took down two bottles from my shelves of medicines. Pouring half of each bottle into a shallow bowl, I threw athelas leaves in, and added boiling water from the tea kettle. 

"Hold on, child," I murmured as Malsîr gasped in pain. "Hold on."

I placed the bowl near her head, dipped a cloth in it, rung out the droplets of the potion, and then put it over her brow and eyes. She gasped again, and I felt her shudder. Closing my eyes briefly, I slipped into Healer's vision. Looking at her, I was appalled to find almost all of her powers had drained away, leaving her weak as a new-born kitten. 

"I must find where her powers are draining away to," I announced. "Glorfindel, you will stay with her?" 

"Of course." Glorfindel looked pale but steady. I nodded, turning to Celebrían. "What was she doing, right before she collapsed?" I wanted to know. "Anything you remember?"

Celebrían frowned. "She had just healed a cut on Elladan's hand, and then she turned to walk down the hall. And then suddenly she shuddered and fell against the wall. That's when I called out and ran to get her. Why?"

"Maybe nothing, maybe something." I turned back to my student; her eyes had closed. My face pulled into a concerned frown. Elves do not naturally fall "unconscious" like humans, since we do not need to do so to get rest. We go into a light reverie, but we do not sleep as humans know it—and therefore, if an elf does fall unconscious and close their eyes, it is a bad sign.  

I sat on a chair next to the table and took Malsîr's hand in mine. Closing my eyes I touched the light rapport that had come to form between us. It was not as close as a lover's rapport, or even a close friend, but it was strong enough that I might be able to trace her power drain and stop it, before it killed her. 

I gently brushed by the traumatic memories that bombarded me as I touched her mind. There was her mother, gasping with pain and dying from gangrene. There was her father, taking an arrow through the thigh. There was I—and indeed it was strange seeing me through her eyes. I saw Celebrían the day she had given birth, before I had reached her side. I gently pushed by the memories and touched her power. It was very low, only a faint glow rather than the sun-like brightness it should have been. There was a thin cord leading away from her store of power. I followed it swiftly, blazing past distances. And it ended in—

—the soul of another elf?

If I had had a body, I would have frowned. The soul felt faintly familiar. The elf sensed my presence and immediately sent a wordless question to my identity. I sent back two words: "Lord Elrond." Curious, the elf asked, "Whyhow?" Which translated to, why are you here and how did you reach this far? "Whereyou?" I returned. "Lórien" came the answer. "What name?" I asked. It was hard to speak over long distances. "Gilwen." "Have daughter?" A sense of overwhelming sadness. "Dead. Malsîr." My heart froze in my chest, wrenching me out of my reverie. 

"Elbereth" I whispered aloud, without realizing it. "All this time…"

"My lord?"

Glorfindel touched my sleeve. I looked up at him. "All this time," I said, "all this time, without knowing—Malsîr's mother didn't die."

*?*?*?*?*?*

*Beloved mother. I believe the elvish is Exiled Noldorin (examples of Noldor: Elrond, Galadriel, Gildor, etc.)


	7. Chapter Seven: A Parent's Choice

Disclaimer: Been there done that…see first chapter *yawn.*

A/n: Alright, I have to explain this before I get bad reviews. First, remember back in chapter three when Malsîr explained that her mom was human and her dad was elven? Well, what if the reason her mother didn't die from old age was she was draining away Malsîr's life-force without realizing it through the mother-daughter rapport? As her mother grew older, she had to take more and more of Malsîr's strength, hence Malsîr's sudden illness. I hope that makes the story line a bit clearer. Yes, I know I gave Malsîr's mother an elven name, but Aragorn had an elvish name (Estel) and Arwen called him that (in the Appendixes) so Malsîr's mother took an elvish name as well. Yes, I know that I said that Elrond contacted an "elf" in the last chapter, but think—if Malsîr's soul was bound to her mother's they were bound to overlap, making her appear as an elf until closer inspection. 

_160 mortal year of the Third Age, of the tenth month and thirteenth day:_

_I am cured of my illness, a power-drain, but my agony remains. My dear mother, alive all this time, until now…I hate him. I hate Lord Elrond. He killed her. He murdered her. May he rot in Thangorodrim* until Arda Marred is destroyed for all eternity!_

_-excerpt from Malsîr's diary_

_She was wounded in soul more than body. How I wished I could help her—but Malsîr would take no comfort for her pain, and that alone made me fear for her._

_-excerpt from Glorfindel's journal_

_I have done a great evil, and it can never be forgiven, not by me, and most certainly not by Malsîr. My only hope is that her pain will fade, in time. But regret, regret is undying, and I will live with that until the end of time. Because for us, death is no escape. _

_-excerpt from Elrond's personal chronicles_

Chapter Six

A Parent's Choice

"And that is why you have not yet died of old age," I said to Gilwen, the human obviously shocked. I was in Lothlórien after a week of hard ridding. At last report, Glorfindel said that Malsîr's condition was serious, if stable. 

"All these years," Gilwen said sadly, "I thought she died…none of the healers remembered her, but one said they treated an elven-girl, and she died. And you tell me this…rapport between us, is killing her?"

"Yes." I nodded sadly, knowing what Gilwen would say—what any parent would say. 

"Break it," Gilwen said flatly. She was an older woman, looking to be in her mid-fifties, though actually she was more than twice that. Her long gray hair was streaked with red, as though long ago she'd been a beautiful young maiden from Rohan. I doubted it not. 

"You will age and die, very rapidly," I said gently.

"So be it. I will not outlive my daughter."

"Is there anything you'd like me to tell her?"

Gilwen caught my eye; her face and eye-color were so like to Malsîr's I could almost be speaking with my student. "Yes. Tell her I love her. I never meant to leave her, and I'm sorry I never got to see her. I know she will make me proud, and that—" Her voice broke off into sobbing. She wiped her tears away. "There's no time to make a trip to Rivendell?" she whispered.

"I wish there was," I said quietly. 

"Then—just tell her I love her, and that I'm proud of her. You will tell her?" She searched my face, her tear running freely down her face. 

"Yes," I answered hoarsely. "I will tell her."

"Do it," she said, "do it now."

My heart ached in my chest with a physical pain. I had hoped I would never again have to help anyone die. And yet here I was, in a situation so similar to the last time. 

I reached out with my right hand and brushed my fingers against the woman's temple. She closed her eyes, and then shuddered as I gently broke the contact between her and her daughter. Gilwen opened her eyes, and seemed to age a hundred years before my eyes. Her face wrinkled, her hair turned white, her form shrunk and weakened. Then her eyes closed and she fell over, dead. 

The Elves of Lórien buried her there, near the city that had taken her in. I gave my respects to Galadriel and left that day. I could not stay. 

The way home was cold and lonely. I had left without warning and had refused an escort, meaning to gallop most of the way and not wanting to attract attention with a large group.

Two weeks later I rode into Rivendell, tired and cold and heart sore. I was pleased, however, to see Malsîr run to greet me, tears in her eyes. "My lord!" she shouted, and caught me in a hug as I dismounted, much to my surprise. I hugged her back, gently. She was still very thin, and I could feel her bony shoulders press briefly against my chest before she pulled away. "I feel so much better," she exclaimed, "what did you do?" She read something in my eyes and her face fell. "My Lord?" she asked uncertainly.

I swallowed. It would be impossible to keep something like this from her, and it would only hurt more if I lied to her. "Malsîr, your mother didn't die in the war."

She froze. "But—but I saw—"

"The healer's made a mistake and mixed your mother up with someone else. You healed her without realizing it through a bond between you called a rapport."

"I know what a rapport is, Lord Elrond." Her voice was sharp. "But my mother?"

I swallowed again. "I'm so sorry, Malsîr. She asked me to break the bond…it would have killed you had I not…she was very old, and mortal, Malsîr…"

I stopped. Her eyes were completely glazed over. "Dead?" she whispered. "All this time, my mother lived; and now, now she is dead?"

I nodded my mouth dry. Her agony was palpable. Glorfindel and Celebrían came up slowly behind her, sensing an intrusion would not be wise at this time. 

Suddenly, Malsîr flung herself at me, her motions anything but affectionate. _"Murderer!" she screamed, pummeling me. __"Murderer! You murdered my mother! __Murderer!"_

I grasped her wrists firmly. "Malsîr, stop!" I said sternly. Elves were looking out their windows, trying to see what was going on. Glorfindel grabbed Malsîr from behind; she found him wildly, still screaming. Celebrían hid her face in her hands as Glorfindel dragged Malsîr out of sight, still screaming _murderer every time she took a breath. _

I felt so cold. I stood as still as stone until Celebrían touched my shoulder. "Elrond?" she breathed, slipping her arm around my waist. "Elrond?" She touched my cheek gently. "It was not your fault," she whispered, pulling me into an embrace. I leaned against her limply, unfeeling. "It was not your fault," she repeated. 

"Then whose was it?" I asked, my voice muffled in her hair.

"No ones," she said, rocking me like a small child. "It was not anyone's fault, Elrond."

"Oh, Celebrían," I said, closing my eyes, "how I wish I could believe you."

*?*?*?*?*?*?*

*According to _The Complete Guide to Middle-Earth, by Robert Foster, Thangorodrim was "the three peaked mountain raised above Angband by Melkor on his return to Middle-Earth with the Silmarils…but it was volcanic and emitted foul vapors, smoke, and lava." I consider it the closest thing to hell that Middle-Earth had, though it was destroyed later on, during the Great Battle. _


	8. Chapter Eight: Trying to Forgive

Disclaimer: Yeah, I own 'em all and I'm making millions of dollars off of this and I live in Buckingham Palace with the Queen and I walk around decked out in the Royal Jewels in a Jeweled carriage with four white horses and I'm being married to the Prince of Poland (is there a prince of Poland?) and I eat off of a gold plate with gold utensils and we have one hundred different dishes every night. _Sure. Yeah. Uh huh. Riiiiiiiigh. C'mon! You know the truth! We all love 'em and none of us own 'em. _

A/n: Sad, I know, but this is placed under "Angst" as a secondary subject. 

_I do not know or care about the date. I am so cold. I hate him, Elrond. He killed my mother. I see nothing worth saving in Middle-Earth, Arda Marred. What point is there to a life in a world half-destroyed already? We should go, leave it to the humans to destroy once and for all. There can be no life without hope, and I have none._

_-excerpt from Malsîr's diary. _

Chapter Seven

Trying to Forgive

I found Malsîr outside again. The moon was new, and the stars shone brightly above Rivendell. It took a bit of searching this time to find her—she obviously did not want to be found—but I ended up next to a tiny dell, almost completely hidden by weeping willows. The dell was a grassy knoll behind a waterfall in a small cave covered with moss and open to the sunlight. 

Malsîr stood up and would have fled when she saw me, but I blocked the only exit. "Let me go," she said in a low voice.

"I do not keep you," I answered evenly.

"Do not play with me, Lord Glorfindel!" she snapped. "Let me by!"

"No." My voice was flat and unyielding.

"Melkor take you!" she shouted, and birds seemed to hush at the mention of the evil Vala. 

I stared at her, unmoved. "That was not wise, to name so evil a creature. We do not speak his name."

"Because you're cowards. You Noldorin elves, bringing war and hate to Middle-Earth."

Something stirred in my memory. Had Elrond said something about her being part Teleri and part Sindarin, or some such mix? "Those wars are long past," I reminded her carefully. 

Her hair flew about her as she spun around, pacing like a caged animal. "And why do you not return to peaceful, wonderful Valinor?" she demanded, her voice dripping sarcasm. "Why did you ever leave it?"

"Because I loved Middle-Earth and did not wish to leave it," I said quietly. "I had died, once, defending it. I would not give it up so easily."

That seemed to take some of the rage out of her. She sat down on a mossy rock and leaned her head wearily against the wall of the cave. "Go away, Glorfindel. Leave me to mourn in peace."

"Mourning is not done correctly, if it is done alone." I came closer to her and knelt on the ground next to her, watching her face. 

"What would you know of mourning?" she answered, but her voice was a strained whisper. 

"I lost my loved ones in the wars of the First Age," I answered quietly. "I saw too much death, too much destruction, too much pain not to learn much, indeed too much, of mourning." I reached up a hand to brush the hair out of her face, but she flinched away. "Oh, Malsîr, why do you torture yourself so?" I asked sadly. 

"Myself?" she asked, confused. 

"You hurt yourself by refusing to accept comfort. You hurt yourself more by hating Lord Elrond."

Her face hardened. "He killed her."

"Your mother made the choice to save you. She would not outlive her daughter. It was the choice any parent would have made, Malsîr. She loved you. She loved you without even seeing you. She was proud of you—Malsîr, can you let her down?"

"What life is there without hope? I have none." Her voice was dead-pan. She dropped her head, allowing her hair to hide her face. I gently brushed it back and around her pointed ear. She glanced at me sideways.

"It is true that without hope, one cannot live," I said quietly, almost to myself. "Without hope for the future, there is none. And yet, you have hope, Malsîr, for you still live."

"What do you mean?" Her voice was weary. 

"I have seen elves die of grief. I have seen them die from wounds. You are dying from neither, Malsîr, for you are dying from yourself. Can you not accept that you are loved and cared for? Why do you shy so from affection?"

She struggled with her thoughts for a long moment, finally sliding to the ground beside me, curling her legs under her. She slowly raised her eyes to meet mine. "Everyone I ever loved or cared for died," she said simply. Her eyes welled with tears. "My father, all of my kin, and my mother…dear mother—" A sob shook her body. "I can't stand to loose someone else. I can't go through that again. I just can't. It would kill me. I know it would."

"Malsîr, we love and we loose—it is part of life. Have you never thought of Lord Elrond?" 

She looked at me, puzzled, her eyes over-bright. "What about him?"

"He never knew his parents. He was captured by the murderers of the only kin and family he ever knew. His brother Elros choose a mortal life and died. Elrond was there at his deathbed. Gil-Galad was like a father to him, and Elrond watched him burn to death on the slopes of Mount Doom. And it has not killed him, though it wounded him, and the pain still remains to this day." I brushed aside her long, unruly hair. "Death follows us everywhere, Malsîr. It is part of who we are—to regret, and to see the sorrow in life. If we even befriend a mortal, we feel the pain at their passing. It is nothing new to us, Malsîr, and will always be with us. You have your memories of your parents. Elrond has nothing. You are accepted as half-elf. Elrond was not." She looked at me, panting slightly through parted lips. It was dark inside the cave; the only light came from the stars reflecting in our eyes. 

"I don't know if I can forgive him," she whispered. 

I stroked the side of her face. "Try," I answered, just as softly. I leaned forward and kissed her cheek. Her hair brushed my face and she closed her eyes as I spoke in her ear. "For your own sake, for your own peace of mind, try."

*     *     *     *

_In many ways, I wanted to forgive him. But in many other ways, I was not ready to. Maybe I had to forgive myself, first. _

_-excerpt from Malsîr's diary_

I stared as Malsîr entered my chambers. I had sincerely thought she would never speak to me again, and I would not have been surprised if she had chosen so. And yet here she was, obviously struggling with some sort of emotion. Her cheeks reddened as Glorfindel, Erestor, and Celebrían glanced at her. I kept my gaze neutral. 

"Oops, look at the time," Glorfindel said suddenly, though there was no clock in the room. "I really must go check the stock inventory."

He nudged Erestor—hard—as he went by. "Um, oh yes, I have, ah, visitors to attend to," Erestor said lamely as he quickly stood up and trotted after Glorfindel. 

"Oh, my, is it that late already? I really must see to the twins." Celebrían followed the two men out, giving me a very large wink before she closed the door. I sighed. My entire group of advisers was plotting against me. I could see the day of my removal of office clearly in my mind. I grinned slightly at the thought. My gaze sobered as I looked upon Malsîr, standing awkwardly in front of me. 

"Sit," I said, and she sat in the seat previously occupied by Glorfindel. The motion did not pass by me unnoticed. 

"I do not know if I can forgive you yet," she said softly. "But I would like to try."

I reached out across my desk and took her hand. She didn't resist, and even squeezed my palm gently. I smiled, blinking back a sudden blurriness in my eyes. "Let's go study," I suggested. I let her go first into the door that led into the library, then backtracked to the door and opened it suddenly. Glorfindel, Celebrían, and Erestor tumbled into an ungraceful pile at my feet. I gazed at them sternly, and then smiled. "Breathe softer next time," I suggested mildly, ignoring their dirty looks, and shut the door behind me. 


	9. Chapter Nine: A Talk with Thranduil

Disclaimer: We've BEEN through this already! I don't own anything but Malsîr and Gilwen! Does anyone even _read these? I didn't think so. It is so obvious I didn't make this stuff up. I don't have the imagination! And I suck at foreign languages, so there is __no way I could have made up something like elvish. Besides, even if I was the author, I wouldn't be writing fan fiction, now would I? That's why it's called __fan fiction rather than __author fiction. I mean, duh. _

_It is winter. Is that not date enough? Burr, so cold…_

_Life goes on much as it has this past day. But I get the feeling something is going to happen. Perhaps it is the strange words spoken to me by Elrond. Perhaps it is little Legolas, so innocent, and yet with his mother recently dead leading a war party against the last of the orcs, I cannot help but feel a kinship with him. I wish I knew what Elrond spoke of when he said that my fate was only my own for a little while.._

_Elf lords.__ Impossible to understand, everyone of them._

_-excerpt from Malsîr's diary. _

Chapter Eight

A Talk with Thranduil

I have to admit, I was more than slightly surprised when Malsîr walked into my study slightly more than a fortnight later just as afternoon was beginning to settle in, and holding a bloody handkerchief to her forehead as blood dripped down one side of her head.

"Lord Elrond? I think this may need stitches."

"Bright stars, Malsîr! What happened?"

She looked slightly sheepish. "I slipped in the wash-tub," she murmured. I motioned her to take a seat and she did so, wincing as I pulled the handkerchief away from the wound on her temple. The edges were neatly split, and like most head-wounds were bleeding profusely.

I washed my hands and took out my surgical instruments. Selecting a thin needle and threading it I also picked up a poppy salve. 

"Come, lie down on the couch," I said, motioning.

Malsîr looked faintly bemused. "I will get blood all over the pillows, my lord."

I raised an eyebrow. "If the laundrymen and women complained every time something gets bloody around here, I would have long ago been exiled. Besides, the couch is already scarlet. A little blood won't show up. I'd rather that then have you twitch by accident and me jab you with the needle."

Reluctantly Malsîr settled down on the couch. Gently I turned her head towards mine and dabbed a cleansing salve on the cut. She hissed with pain, and then fell silent. After a moment I dabbed the expensive numbing salve on her face above her eyebrow. She winced a bit; the salve was very cold, and no one likes their face being handled. To take her mind off of the discomfort, I began to talk.

"What exactly did you hit, may I ask?" My tone was light as I dipped the needle in the same salve. I tapped the wound with one finger, and when she didn't flinch inserted the needle through the flap of skin. 

"My comb."

"Your _what?"_

"My ivory comb. It was propped up between a bottle of wine and my cup. My head hit the cup and broke the glass; then I rammed against the comb."

I smiled sympathetically. "Reminds me of the time Elladan fell out of that cherry tree. Remember? He was only four years old, decided he was big enough to try and climb the tree…"

"…After Elrohir dared him," she finished with a slight grin. "He fell out of the tree and screamed loud enough to wake the dead."

"He was sure he would be dead in a matter of moments. There was blood everywhere, and Celebrían was crying."

"You warned him never to listen to his brother again, as I remember."

"Yes, but I forgot to say the same to Elrohir," I said with a sigh. "The very next day Elladan told his brother than elves can fly if they jump into rivers."

Malsîr laughed out loud. "Oh, no, I think I know where this is going."

"You don't remember? Elrohir jumped into the river and was carried ten miles downstream. All of Rivendell was in a panic and Elladan had innocently disappeared. Elrohir finally made it back that evening, grinning from ear to ear. It appears he met up with some Rangers who took him in and helped him find the way back to Rivendell. All week he bragged that he alone of the two twins had been outside of Rivendell."

I was almost finished with the cut. Malsîr had relaxed, allowing me to work more swiftly, though I was wary of the times I would make her laugh. The numbsit would only work for the upper part of the skin; if I accidentally drove the needle in deeply I could hurt her badly. 

I tied off the last stitch. "Done," I declared. She sat up carefully, and slowly raised her eyebrows in testing. She felt the stitches stretch and let her face settle back into its natural position. 

"Just be careful not to break those stitches," I warned her as I wrapped a bandage around her head. 

An amused look crossed her face. "My lord, I am not _that green."_

I was startled for a moment, and then laughed. "No, I suppose you are not," I agreed. I tested the bandage's snugness, and then nodded. "You are finished," I said, and began to gather up the bowls and salves I had used. Malsîr silently helped me, washing out containers and putting things back in their proper place on shelves. 

We worked together, silently. There was still a bit of tension between us, and I suspected there always would be. But Malsîr's face was calm and her eyes slightly glazed as she worked, telling me she was deep in memory. I did not disturb her. 

Suddenly, a crash, followed by a loud wail made both Malsîr and I jump. Rushing to the window, I looked out to see Legolas, little more than a baby still, crying hysterically in the courtyard, his nurse holding him in her lap. A broken pottery vase was scattered across the stone steps. The wind picked up and blew the sent of blood to my nose. 

Flinching at the metallic odor, I grabbed my stitching kit and called to the nurse to bring Legolas up. White faced, the elder elf nodded and carried the only child of King Thranduil into my office. 

"What is the meaning of this?" Malsîr jumped at the bear-like roar, almost dropped the bowl. She spun around as I sighed. 

"What was that?" she asked, even as the door to my study was flung open and an irate King Thranduil stormed in. "What is the meaning of this?" he roared. The nurse followed, carrying a still-sobbing Legolas. The little princes' hand was cut along the palm, and still bleeding. 

Malsîr, ignoring Thranduil's sharp glare, took the child from the nurses' arms, rocking and soothing him as she pressed a clean handkerchief to the wound, applying pressure. Legolas squealed with discomfort, but she just continued speaking to him in the elvish tongue. She had had plenty of practice with holding Elladan and Elrohir, who had been constantly getting into things when they were little. 

"Ada*?" Arwen peered in through the open door. Her dark eyes were wide and innocent, and she was no larger than a mortal five-year-old. Her long black hair was pulled back at the top and left to flow down her back. "Is everything all right?"

I smiled affectionately down at her, placing my hand on her small head. "Everything is fine, dear heart."

She nodded, a delicate smile curving her rose-red lips. She looked around once, and then skipped off down the hall. 

"Who put that pot there?" Thranduil was demanding of Malsîr, startling Legolas into a fit again. "I want to know the person responsible for this!"

"_Lord Thranduil," Malsîr said, as close to gritting her teeth as elves can get, "if you do not leave me to work on this cut, not only will your son be in hysterics for the rest of the day, but he will be permanently traumatized and never be able to handle a situation with blood. Now either get out, or go sit down and be quiet. I have work to do."_

I turned away so Malsîr couldn't see my proud smile. It was hard to tell a parent to go sit down while their child was worked down, but it was sometimes necessary.

Especially in the case of some boisterous Elf-Kings. 

"Come, my Lord Thranduil," I said softly. "Let us retire in the northern suite as Malsîr takes care of your son."

Thranduil turned his glare on me. "Why aren't you stitching up that cut?" he demanded harshly.

I kept a bland smile on my face as Malsîr flushed with rage. "Malsîr is quite capable of handling such injuries on her own," I said soothingly. "It would be demeaning of me to insist on doing a job I know quite well she can handle without problems."

Thranduil scowled, but allowed himself to be led out of the room. In the distance I could hear Malsîr saying, "Now, little prince, what have you got there? A little blood? Don't worry about it, this won't hurt a bit, and you can go play again with your nurse, won't that be nice?"

Thranduil threw himself moodily into a chair, practically snatching the glass of wine I offered him out of my hand. 

"He will be fine," I said softly as I sat across from the Elf-King.

Thranduil turned an accusing glare on me. "That's what everyone said about Lothwen," he snarled.

I winced. Lothwen, Thranduil's only other child and daughter, had been killed fighting in the Last Alliance. "I am sorry for you loss," I said. 

His lip curled. "Are you really?"

I stared at him hard. "Would you rather Sauron be gloating over his victory right now, if there had been no Alliance?"

"If it meant Lothwen was still alive, then yes!"

I closed my eyes. "Unless you have forgotten, I lost my King in the war. You were not the only one to grieve, Lord Thranduil."

Thranduil sighed with exasperation. "I'm sure your mistress would be pleased to hear of that," he muttered. 

My eyes snapped open and narrowed sharply. "How _dare you speak of Celebrían in such a manner? She comes from a line far higher than yours, King Thranduil, and from descendants far nobler."_

Thranduil, to my utter surprise, grinned wolfishly. "That's the one thing I like about you Noldor. You speak your minds. If I said the same to my sheep-like elves in Greenwood, I would likely get a humble 'Yes, of course, my Lord' response. At the most it would be, 'I respectfully disagree, Your Majesty.'"

"And whose fault is that?"

Thranduil grimaced. "I admit my father was harsh with them under his reign. But I can hardly help that, now can I?"

"No, but you can change it."

Thranduil swished his wine around in his glass and stared into it for a long time. "It's so easy for you to say that, Elrond. You live here in your perfect elvish valley, all neatly set up for you, protected by natural mountains, gullies, rivers—and power." I glanced at him sharply. "Oh, don't try and fool me, Elrond. I sensed it the instant I walked into this cursed valley of yours. That Ring of yours will be the undoing of this place—you know that and so do I."

I struggled with my emotions for a moment, and then smiled slightly. "What exactly are we arguing over, again?"

Thranduil shrugged. "It depends on your point of view. We could be arguing about politics between our races long past, or we could be arguing just for the sake of arguing."

I caught his eyes and held them. "The Noldor and the Sindar and the Silvan elves are all elves, Thranduil. There are individual clans, not races, among the elves. We are all one people."

Thranduil shook his head and looked away. "I wish I could believe you, Lord Elrond." He turned back to me, and looked briefly mournful. "I do wish I could believe you."

"Then take our healing of your son as a gesture of goodwill," I said, standing. Thranduil stood as well. 

"Maybe I will," he said. 

At that moment, Malsîr walked through the door carrying a sleeping Legolas in her arms. The little elfling was curled against her chest, sucking on his thumb, eyes half-closed and glazed over. The tips of his ears folded over slightly, and his rosy cheeks offset his dark locks and proclaimed him from Sindarin descent. No Noldor had rosy cheeks. His right hand was thickly bandaged. 

"I'll take him." Thranduil's voice, normally clipped and harsh, softened as his son stirred. Malsîr gave him a suspicious look, and then gently eased Legolas into Thranduil's arms. The boy settled in comfortably with a soft sigh. Thranduil looked down into the face of his youngest child and smiled slightly. 

"They're the last, you know," Thranduil said, as though to himself. "Legolas, Arwen..." he looked up at me, eyes glimmering in the fading light. "They're the last born of our race, Elrond."

I came to stand beside and looked down into Legolas' sleeping eyes, well aware of Malsîr's puzzled gaze. "Yes," I agreed. "They are."

*     *     *     *

"What was that all about, my lord?" Malsîr demanded as soon as Thranduil had left with his son.

I poured myself another glass of wine, more for the excuse to pause in answering than for the alcohol. "They are the last born, Malsir."

"What, you think I may not want children some day?"

I turned around and watched her. Her eyes burned feverishly with anger and bitterness, and her face was shadowed on one side by the rising moon.

"No," I said, "I think your fate is far different from that."

She scowled and turned away. "My fate is my own."

I nodded. "For now," I whispered. 

*?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?*

*ada=father


End file.
